


Stairway to Heaven

by archeolatry



Series: Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel's Mixtape, Coda, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Fanfiction Gap, Gen, Human Castiel, Led Zeppelin - Freeform, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Season/Series 09, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: So what happened between Cas' failed date and when Dean dropped him off at the Gas-N-Sip?==“Don’t worry about me.” Dean screwed the topper back onto his flask. “It’s my turn to watch overyou."





	Stairway to Heaven

"Where to, Cas?"

Cas' face fell into a mask of quiet desperation. He glanced forward, and backward, and everywhere but at Dean before finally slinking into the shotgun seat of the Impala.

Dean blinked away his own confusion. They’d just shanked a rogue angel together in a fine display of teamwork. Hell, they’d been batting a thousand all day. So why was Cas so glum? Had he heard any part of that conversation with Sam? (And if he hadn’t, now wasn’t the time to break the news.) Dean dropped into the driver’s seat, steeling himself for whatever Cas was about to lay on him.

Inside, Cas was no better. His eyes darted around the interior like it was foreign to him. His breath came in short puffs from his open mouth. His brow was heavy with pain. 

“Cas?”

"I don't know," Cas said finally. His head pivoted towards the windshield, staring out into the open street, his eyes focused on nothing.

Dean knew that look: panic. The patient kind that strikes when you're cornered. And he knew of only two surefire cures--once you had your bearings, that is: a long pull of whiskey or a wandering night drive. If you could do both, it worked twice as well.

"I know a place."

 

Only an hour's drive east of Rexburg, through Idaho and into Wyoming, on a nearly deserted highway, happened to be Grand Teton National Park. And there happened to be a turnoff with a beautiful view: a flat, grassy plain dotted here and there with pines, and the Tetons themselves on the horizon, ascending straight into the sky. The land was dark, but the moon was bright and the stars were many.

Castiel lay back against the hood of the Impala, left arm cradling his head. Dean perched like a gargoyle on the driver’s side, back hunched, boots resting on the bumper.

“How did you find this place?”

“Vengeful spirit case with Dad,” Dean replied, mouth still wet with whiskey. “When I was a kid, there weren’t always motels in these small towns, so my old man kept a pup tent in the trunk. We’d set up camp by lantern light and salt the perimeter.” He took another nip from his flask. “That was always risky, though--deer might come by and lick up your salt circle.”

Dean offered Castiel the flask. Cas’ hand extended forward hesitantly, and shrunk back twice as fast. After a moment’s thought, he reached over, slowly, to hold it. He studied the object with his new, human eyes. It was rounded at every corner, and worn smoother still from being slipped into coat pockets. Still warm from Dean’s hand. 

Cas sniffed at it, his forehead folding in confusion. He placed the mouth of it at his own lips, as he had seen Dean do, and tipped it back. He got less than a thimbleful into his mouth before pulling it away. 

“Dean, this tastes terrible.” Cas scraped his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to escape the burning sensation.

Dean glanced over his shoulder with a half-shrug. "Yeah, well, it's not really a 'tasting' brand." 

Both men stared out into the distance, at the mountains unmoved by the passing eons, at the light of dead stars. At this time of night, the tourists were hunkered into their sleeping bags and the cars had stopped passing through. Only the occasional darting deer or wolf cry intruded on the perfect silent stillness. It was only Dean and Cas. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck .“Some view, eh?”

“Yes,” Cas replied, eyes heavenward. “My Father’s creation is so vast and complex that I sometimes forget to stop and appreciate the small parts of it.” A pregnant pause hung in the air. “It must be difficult for you...returning to a place you went with your father.” 

Dean efflared a laugh. “Well, neither of us have the World’s Greatest Dad, do we? At least I’m only reminded of mine by cheap bourbon and Old Spice, not the goddamn Grand Tetons.” His ears flushed so red so suddenly they could be seen in moonlight. “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“I’m quite used to you taking His name in vain, Dean,” Cas said patiently. “I know you don’t mean it.”

Dean had another tipple. “Do you miss it?”

“Heaven?”

“Yeah.”

Cas sighed. “I miss _purpose_. I was a soldier. I helped people. I knew what my existence was _for_. But now...now I’m not so sure.”

“No one knows what they’re here for, Cas. That’s part of being human. You just...carry on, and hope you’ve done some good in the end.”

Cas gazed at Dean with more than a little reverence.“You’re a hunter. You _have_ purpose. You _do_ good.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “I could do better. There’s never a hunt where I don’t ask ‘Could I have saved one more person?’ More often than not, the answer is yes.” His voice was weary and small. “And it kills me _every. time._ ”

“Dean,” he began, “I know you’re not the biggest fan of us. Angels. But I can’t help but think you’d be suited for it.” Dean barely concealed some bitter laughter. “I mean it. We need more angels who think like you do.”

“I don’t think they promote from the mail room in your operation, Cas,” he said with a smirk. 

“Maybe we should.” A few heartbeats later, he asked, “How’s the translation going?” 

Dean took one more swig to buy time. “Good.” The lie burned his throat worse than the whiskey. “Kevin translated the words on the angel tablet into some other language, then into these weird little doodles...” Dean flapped his hand dismissively. “He’s going through the fine print right now. As soon as we get anything we’ll let you know.” He clapped Cas on the knee. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you a stairway to heaven.”

“There’s nothing in any of the scriptures about a stairway,” Cas puzzled.

“It’s a _song_ , Cas. A Led Zeppelin song.” He raked a hand over his face. “I really gotta make you that mix tape.”

 

The ensuing short silence was punctuated by a wide yawn-and-stretch from Cas. 

“I hate to say this Dean, but...I’m getting sleepy. I need to go back to the Gas-N-Sip.”

Those words hit Dean right behind the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. “You sleep at the Gas-N-Sip?”

“It’s shelter, and it’s warm. I have my own space and my own toilet”--his eyes downcast at the word toilet; clearly the act still embarrassed him-- “and I can be there for the morning doughnut delivery.” He smiled thinly, his pride not quite so puffed up as a few hours previous. 

“Why don’t you sleep here?” Dean said softly. “There’s plenty of room in the back seat, I’ve got a space blanket in the trunk...”

He glanced up at Dean. “But where will _you_ sleep?” 

“Don’t worry about me.” He screwed the topper back onto his flask. “It’s my turn to watch over **you**.”

He peered over his shoulder to find Cas staring at him with those holy blue eyes, all wide and watery. “Thank you, Dean. I’m very grateful.”

“Don’t mention it, Cas,” he mumbled, turning to face the mountains again.

The Impala jounced as Castiel rolled off the hood and feet-first onto the pavement; she groaned as Cas opened the back door. Dean sat still and silent as ever. 

_“This is what I’ve reduced him to,”_ Dean thought. _“Castiel, Angel of the Lord, curled up behind boxes of Slushie mix at the Gas-N-Sip.”_

He breathed a heavy sigh- one that came from depths of his chest. As soon as Sammy got better, he was kicking that wingless turkey Ezekiel to the curb. Then he’d bring Cas back with him, and they--him and Kevin and Sam--they’d put their heads together and they’d...

they’d...

... _fix it_. Whatever _it_ ended up being. Opening Heaven, getting Cas’ mojo back... Or just giving him a place to stay. Feeding him burritos. Teaching him to tie his shoelaces. Whatever.

_“Why does he have to look at me like that...? With those big damn eyes...”_

Dean scooted forward off the hood, slipping his flask into his back pocket and reaching into his front pocket for his keys. There was, reliably, a space blanket in the trunk, packed tight into a little square of silver foil. He unfolded it, fanning away the corners as best he could. He’d forgotten how noisy the damn things could be, but if he was desperate enough to use one he was usually too tired to care. 

Around five feet by five feet, Dean reckoned. Not ideal for a guy Cas’ size, but it’d be warm enough. 

He swung open the back door to find Cas stretched across the seat. He lay on his side, his knees and hands drawn close to his body for warmth. Already out like a light.

 _“Lucky son of a bitch,”_ Dean thought, _“he can get to sleep just by putting his head down.”_

It took half a second before he realized his mistake: Cas wasn’t lucky, he was exhausted. This was probably the best sleep he’d had in weeks. No angels hunting him; no reapers. Not afraid of his boss coming in early one morning and seeing him asleep in the stock room. 

The notion shot a bolt of silent awe through him: Cas was placing a whole lotta trust in him right now.

He draped the blanket over Cas, not wanting to wake him with the crinkling and flapping. He closed the door softly, opened the passenger side as quietly as he could, and, finally, eased his door shut with a muffled click. He looked over his shoulder at Castiel. _“Sleeping like a baby.”_

Cas’ face had softened in sleep. His ever-furrowed brows were relaxed now; his heroic jaw gone slack, with lips slightly parted. His hands balled under his chin like a child’s would. How different he looked. 

Dean was possessed with the sudden urge to touch him. Would he feel any different without his grace? The Angel Castiel had beat the living crap out of him--more than once. Even looking at his hands, in their loosely furled fists, was enough to make Dean shudder at the sense memory. Every punch landed like a brick to the face; punching back was like hitting a wall. Would he feel more human now? Soft? Warm?

 _“Ooh, it makes me wonder,”_ he sang to himself, _“ooh, it really makes me wonder...”_

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. It was the whiskey talking.

As if in response, Cas shifted in his sleep, trying to bury his face into the plush seat cushion. The blanket drifted off his shoulder and partially onto the floor. Before he could stop himself, Dean reached over, pulling the blanket back over Cas and tucking the thing between his back and the seat. And, for extra warmth, securing it--slowly, as not to wake him with the crinkling--between his shoulder and jawline.

Stubble. Lots of stubble. But warm. _“And safe, like he should be,”_ Dean thought, scolding himself a little, _“with no one perving on him while he’s asleep.”_

“G’nite, Cas,” he whispered. 

He swung his legs over to the steering wheel side before resting his back against the door. He then pulled up the collars of his shirt and jacket, and tucked his hands in his armpits. It was chilly outside, but he could soldier through it for Cas’ sake. 

He shook his head again, as if he could just erase his thoughts like an Etch-A-Sketch. This rotgut stuff made his brain hum. 

_“It’s just the whiskey talking,”_ Dean repeated to himself, _“it’s just the whiskey talking...”_


End file.
